Waiting

by Ilana Petraru

1

Who can match the pain of losing a loved one seconds before telling them how much you love them? And who can predict these things anyway? Did you ever know that you would meet them thinking the things you are thinking now? You love them. You cherish them. And now they are gone. So they say to get over it, and to move on, and that life continues without them or your love. Who can match that pain? They certainly can't.

I lay in bed talking to you while you're sleeping. Asking you the same questions, but you don't seem to hear me. I was told that parents often speak into their children's ears while they are sleeping, and then the children remember everything later on in their life. I speak to you now, as if you are my child. But differently than that. I love you the way I would love a lover, the father of my children, my future and the end of my world if you were to leave. I always predict you leave me rather than I you. Or maybe our fate is for something tragic to happen. Not a plane crash, or a freak accident. Something calm, something civil. Like you would leave to take a job somewhere else, and I would not be able to follow. It would be civil for you, because you would be saved my tears. I only cry when you yell and tell me that you would never love another more than you love me. But you wouldn't say that this time, and for some reason, I know it is not the truth anymore.

Really I should be sleeping, like you. Always, in the instance of tragedy, you manage to dive into sleep as I get carried away by a good book, or your voice. Really, nothing is wrong, my love. I just wish to sleep like you, and stop dreaming of the day I will really lose you. The day I met you was the day I knew I would never have you.

2

Every time they spoke of you it was in terms of your tremendous heartbreak from a relationship that ended about two years before. Some beautiful, red-haired Australian model that preferred the glamorous life of travelling and having a different man on her arm every night. You weren't enough for her, and you wouldn't let yourself believe that. But because she would come around now and again and selfishly ring you up, you could never really forget about her. And you didn't want to either. Not having her was worse than the countless hours you would wait in the rain for her when you had tickets to the opera and she forgot to tell you that she had made other plans with some "important contacts that could really boost my career."

I hated you then because it was obvious how it was to everyone else how badly she was treating you. I hated you because I cared about you, and I hated her for being so careless with your heart. See, I even loved you then. I, myself, selfishly wanted to be your everything. And now I am, but for how long?

3

Foolishly I waited then for your voice on the phone. And I waited thinking you would never call. But it was never your aim to tease, to lead me on, to play hard to get. You weren't sure if I would want to speak with you. I am speaking with you now, and you don't even know it. Always we had this connection, and I winced whenever you said the wrong thing. Because I thought a perfect love would involve a perfect world and perfect words and perfect thoughts. But only you and I were perfect. Everything else around us was, imperfect.

4

Those tender moments when we were in bed I used to tell you of nights that I would wait patiently for you to rescue me. And that as bad my heart gets broken it means that you are that much closer to finding me. You would laugh at me, telling me that you were probably watching T.V. at those times, thinking about nothing at all. I would always envy your ability to disconnect yourself from your heart. You would say, "fuck with it, I'll deal with it tomorrow . . ."  But I could never say that, because I was always waiting for you.

5

I read this once in a book. And it describes love. and the love that i feel for you. i am so weakened by it i cease to use correct punctuation. i space love space you comma more sigh than you know:

"it has been difficult this last year. love is difficult. love gets harder which is not the same as to say that it gets harder to love. you are not hard to love. you are hard to love well. your standards are high, you won't settle for the quick way out which is why you made for the door. if i am honest i will admit that i have always wanted to avoid love. yes give me romance, give me sex, give me fights, give me all the parts of love but not the simple word which is so complex and demands the best of me this hour this minute this forever."

i have nothing really more to give you, my love. i am writing to you now instead of whispering in your ear, because i have a feeling you have heard me those other times, and the truth frightens me more than anything. it is many years later, my love, that i am writing to you now instead of whispering in your ear. we are no longer together, and i predicted it from the very beginning, what is it that i said about never having you? but why does it hurt so much if i never had you. we lend out our heart. we don't give it away. that is why we could take it back, without asking. if i scream along with the beautiful music that enters and leaves the night with me, will i ever really forget you? does knowing you are still alive stop the pain a little bit more?

6

rml. remember me, love?

rocking myself back and forth i can't let go as you have of me. caught in a corner you had to find some way out, and foolish me let you slip through my fingers. i am sick of missing you! foolishly writing down these fucking words you will never see, or read. foolishly still loving you after all these years. spanning continents and oceans to rid your vision in the reflection in the sun. fucking you.

i try to sleep, my love. tonight, with a heavy heart. ache in my jaws, and ribs. clean t-shirts, that you never smelled on me, but you, you always loved my smell. i loved your smell mingling with mine. i go right back to where i was. save me from myself. and my wandering mind. save me tonight if you still care.

Copyright © Ilana Petraru 2003